


bears; believes; hopes; endures

by agent85, recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 4x20, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Discussion of Violence, Extended Scene, F/M, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10840005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent85/pseuds/agent85, https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: The Doctor demands she tell him a lie, but Jemma's never been a good liar. All she can offer Fitz is the truth.[Imagine if The Bad Scene in 4x20 had gone on long enough to give Jemma a better chance.]





	bears; believes; hopes; endures

**Author's Note:**

> Rabbit wakes up on Wednesday morning and despairs. Agent85 is still awake on Tuesday night, in despair. They come together. They wail. They plot. And when they have time, they write this.

“I. Am. Nothing. To. You. Say it!”

The gun feels cool against her head, and she's had nightmares of this scenario, but it was never like this. Fitz was always behind her, or next to her, or—in the dark dreams where she wakes up gasping—the gun is aimed at him instead. Her subconscious has never thought of this scenario, where he would be the one with the finger on the trigger. She has no idea what to do. 

“Say it!”

This isn't Fitz. This is a man who shot a woman in cold blood. This is a man who hates Daisy because of the structure of her genes. This is a man that AIDA programmed, and Jemma thought she could introduce a virus, but somehow she only triggered failsafe mode.

“Say it, or I'll blow your brains out.”

She won't say it, and he'll kill her, anyway. He'll kill her because he's reeling from the loss of his father at her hand. She won't say it because it's a lie, and because it'll be the last thing she ever says to him. But she has to find a way to get them both through the back door, and silence won't do it. She doesn’t need him to believe her. She only needs him to doubt himself enough to give her a chance to save him, and she will snatch him from destruction by her fingernails, with half a breath if she has to.

“There was a time I meant nothing to you,” she says, her voice shaking, “less than nothing—you hated me. And it was all my fault, really. I'd never met anyone as smart as you, and I didn't know how to make friends, so I just followed you around. I'm not sure what I thought it would do. I just needed you to . . .”

He presses the gun into her flesh, frowning when it makes her wince.

“That didn't happen.”

She takes a breath in, lets it out and decides it doesn't matter.

“I can't imagine how annoyed you must have been. I was annoyed that you refused to speak to me, but in hindsight that's probably fair.” 

There's something in his eyes—something that flickers and dies so fast she almost misses it.

“There was one time,” she continues, “you were sitting down to eat breakfast—and honestly, I still can't believe that you managed to acquire twelve strips of bacon, nor can I explain how you thought adding a biscuit would make it a balanced meal—and I was trying to figure out how to casually come up and introduce myself when I somehow managed to spill my tea all over you.”

She smiles at the memory, despite everything. He only looks back at her in angry confusion.

“I'll never forget the look on your face,” she continues. “I was mortified, of course. You looked up at me like you couldn't believe someone could be so stupid.”

“Well, you're not spilling tea these days, are you?” He takes a step forward and she can't help but think he must know it would ruin his suit at this distance. “Instead, you're murdering people.”

She swallows, remembering the sound of the gunshot.

“He tried to strangle me, Fitz. I never would have hurt him otherwise.”

He peers down at her. "You killed him in cold blood.”

“I have his fingerprints on my neck,” she counters.

AIDA may have twisted him to suit her needs, but she still needed the scientist in him. He'll still be drawn to the evidence.

“I don't believe you,” he says. She looks him in the eye and shrugs.

“Come see for yourself.”

She's not actually sure if there's anything for him to see, but she knows he'll have to lower the gun to get a good look. Should she attack him, then? Try to wrestle the gun from his grip? He's so distracted by her that it might just work.

But he doesn't move. He simply stands there, sending tremors through to gun to her temple.

“You killed him in cold blood,” he says. She stiffens.

“You have no evidence of that.”

He twists his head to the side, and is this what he looked like when he found out about Ward? When his whole world fell apart?

“I heard you! I heard everything!”

She shakes her head. "But you saw nothing. Inconclusive. Think of the evidence, Fitz. Think about the man your father was.”

He straightens, towering over her like it will hide the way he still shakes. "He loved me. More than anyone.”

She wants to tell him that it wasn't love, that he has been loved far better than that for the whole of his life. But she holds her tongue to save them both.

“He would have . . . he would have tried to protect me.”

The thought of what Alistair Fitz would consider protection makes her want to vomit, but she swallows it down. Whatever twisted way he's working this out is actually progress. He steps forward cautiously, and this isn't Fitz, but he has the same need for every part of his life to make sense. For a heartbeat she thinks she’s imagined the way the muzzle has slipped against her skin, but she sees Radcliffe coming up behind him and knows this is it. This is her last chance.

“I love you, Fitz,” she says.

Then it is a flurry and a rush of adrenaline and she’s following behind Radcliffe and Fitz with her heart in her mouth and it doesn’t settle back into place until they’ve fought and won a war, and she can hear it under her ear thumping away in his chest where it belongs. Fitz holds her like he can’t help himself, like if he could he’d fuse their bodies into one entity, but his hands tremble against her shoulder blades.

“Why wouldn’t you say it?” he whispers, choking on the words. “I would have—” 

“I couldn’t,” she says, and there has never been anything more true.

“But if I had, how could I ever—”

“How could I ever have let the last thing you heard me say be that?” 

She’s had plenty of opportunity to consider last words—sitting by his bedside listening to the machines keeping him alive, curled up in blue sand with grit and despair in her mouth, pacing a Quinjet with her palm tingling where it had refused to meet his. No few words will ever say everything she wants him to hear, but it won’t stop her attempt. He hides his face in her hair.

“I couldn’t have lived with myself. I couldn’t.” 

She knows.

“That’s why I couldn’t say it. Maybe, if you had known I chose to love you anyway, maybe that could have been enough.”

She holds him more tightly as he shudders against her. She will keep him together if it is all that she manages to do for the rest of her life. The soft fluff of his hair, so different from the last time she saw his face, brushes against her cheek, and she cranes her neck to kiss the spot where it meets his skin. Her Fitz.

“You were never nothing to me,” he says finally, and his touch is fierce but his tone is fragile. “Even that time you spilt the tea. I remember thinking, ‘at last, proof she isn’t perfect—maybe I have a chance.’ That happened. That was real.”

“It was,” she affirms, though that’s new information and makes her breath catch in her throat. “I _know_ it was, Fitz.”

“But the other was real, too,” he says, and she feels his heart breaking in her own chest. She cannot mend him, but she has to try.

“It really happened. But it wasn’t real. You would never do _any_ of those things, Fitz.” 

“Where is your evidence?” he whispers, “because I have plenty on my side.” 

She strokes the back of his neck, gathering her thoughts as carefully as she can. He needs her words so much, and she is so bad at them, but she will take every last syllable captive if it will help him.

“I have known you for fourteen years,” she says, “and loved you that entire time. That’s rather a lot of observation, and all my data points to one conclusion. You are a good man, Fitz.”

He wants to protest, she knows he does, but her love is iron-clad around him, and she does not let him go.

“Fitz.” He stills a little, not speaking, and she knows that he is listening with his whole soul. “I know you don’t know yourself right now. That’s all right. I do. Will you trust me when I tell you the truth?” 

She can offer nothing more, so she waits, holding his heart in her chest safe and strong, trusting him with hers for her whole life even if he doesn’t know how much she means it yet. She’ll tell him soon. 

He stirs, a slow breath across her collarbone, and his hands finally come to rest like an anchor. This is it. This is the result of her last chance.

“I love you, Jemma,” he says.


End file.
